Emotions and Deductions
by Write4EVAandeva
Summary: John is sick; he is dying. Sherlock is thrown into turmoil when he discovers, and as he spirals downward he meets someone who can pull him back up again. She too, has lost someone. Together, with the help of everyone's favorite sonic-screwdriver slinging timelord, they learn what love, and fear are . . . and how to overcome the most terrible of circumstances in life. Rated T:Angst


John would have taken the stairs by two if not for the blasted groceries he was carrying. It was a bitter, vicious cycle really: he did things for Sherlock that the man should be completely capable off on his own and got no appreciation for it, yet secretly, he enjoyed it. Sherlock didn't seem to care, and John liked that. He enjoyed the part he played in his relationship with the sociopath . . . it gave him a sense of purpose. John paused a moment, rolling his eyes he realized how sappy his inner monologue had become; _Blimy John, you sound like you're his mum! It's just groceries. _

He reprimanded himself, setting the heavy load down on the kitchen table and tossing out a casual hullo to his best friend, who sat brooding, as usual, on the couch. Hands pressed together at the fingertips, he was in a state of meditative thought. John plopped down in the chair across from him, raising one strawberry blond eyebrow. Sherlock felt his eyes and turned to face him; he made a face as if to ask what John was waiting for.

John, who was used to such a reaction, simply stated, "I said, hullo."

Sherlock cringed, "Did I miss it again?"

Scruffy blond hair and pursed lips nodded in return, "A moment ago, I walked in the door with groceries."

"Sorry."

"Its fine, what's on your mind?" John leaned forward in the chair.

"Hullo, John."

"Yes, Hullo Sherlock."

He let his hands fall apart, and he sat up straighter. "There was a case." He said.

"Did you take it?" asked John.

Sherlock looked over at him, "No."

"What?" John's voice careened a little, "Why?" he squinted his eyes in speculation; Sherlock rarely turned down a case.

"It just . . . didn't feel right."

John's eyebrows rose, "You know how to do that?"

Sherlock turned, "What?"

"Feel," said John, "You actually know how to feel?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes at Johns little joke, "Though I do find them rather dismal at times."

"There we go," said John, "back to normal."

"It wasn't anything special anyways," Sherlock shrugged him off, "A murderer…very typical type: filled with rage, blood-lust, and just plain thick." Sherlock rose from his chair and strode into the kitchen, digging though the groceries. He found a carton of yogurt and popped it open, snatching a spoon from a nearby drawer and sliding it shut with his hip. He shoved the yogurt, cherry favored, into his mouth and continued talking, rudely.

"I mean," John was thankful that Sherlock had enough control as not to send the yogurt splattering from his mouth, "The man left obvious traces, it was as if he was trying to get caught!" Sherlock huffed in frustration, taking another large spoonful of the dairy snack.

"Wait . . . if you didn't take the case, how can you know that he left all those traces?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as if the answer were obvious, "Mycroft." He said.

John got up from the chair, "Oh I see, you didn't take the case, but you had Mycroft go down and check it out for you like he was your personal sniffer dog!"

Sherlock took a moment to comprehend John's tone; the wrinkles on his forehead and the way his hands hung beside him, along with his curving eyebrow and pursed lips told Sherlock John was annoyed with him again. He considered the best way to respond to this; smirking deviously, he stated "Exactly."

John's right eye twitched; he sighed and rolled his eyes, left hand flying to his forehead. Thumb and forefinger pressed against his temples, he shook his head. His hand moved from his forehead to a gesture of exasperation in the air. He gazed up at the ceiling as if to plead with a deity in the sky as to why he was _graced_ with such an intolerable flat mate.

Sherlock smiled, satisfied by the way he had irked his friend and took his yogurt black to the couch, flopping down on it with a muted his of protest from the worn old cushions.

John stormed into the kitchen and grabbed a yogurt as well; he returned to his chair and looked back over to Sherlock. "I should be paid to put up with you." He stated.

Sherlock sniggered, "We could split the proceeds."

_**Author's Note:**_** Hello, hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this fic! This is NOT a fiction to ship John/Sherlock. I DON'T ship them as anything more that friends…no slash, just good old fashion Bromance. Please review and let me know what you think! **


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